June 1, 1945 (Friday)

WHAT IS SO RARE AS A DAY IN JUNE?

Oh! What is so rare as

a day in June?

Another cold rainy

day - wind still in the

east.

I cleaned the house

from top to bottom

to-day.

Thurzie Thompson, Kate

Posthumus, Lucille, Bertha

Porritt, and Laura Flynn met

here to-night to practice

the skit which is to be

given at our WSCS

meeting next Wed P.M. at

Lenna Johnson's home.

---

Oh! What is so rare as a day in June?

In 1848, the poet James Russell Lowell penned the line "And what is so rare as a day in June?" as part of his epic poem The Vision of Sir Launfal.

Lowell, an abolistionist, was Harvard educated. In 1853, his wife and three of his four children took ill and passed away. Lowell married again in 1857. Before his death in 1891 he also served at the editor for Atlantic Monthly and North Ameican Review. Learn more about James Russell Lowell here: https://poets.org/poet/james-russell-lowell

While many people aren't likely familar with the entire poem The Vision of Sir Launfal, the line about the rarity of a day in June rings a bell for many. Sadie Stein, a contributing editor for The Paris Review, explained in her June 1, 2015 column A Surly Clang.

"Even people who don’t know poetry—and who certainly don’t know much about James Russell Lowell—have often heard the June line from “The Vision of Sir Launfal.” This is probably a bit of oral tradition at work; pick up any school primer from the late nineteenth or early twentieth century and you’re likely to find an excerpt from the poem. Generations of American school kids probably recited it and, in the way of recitations, remembered it instead of much more important things all their lives."

Before Enda married Henry, she was a school teacher. Perhaps she read this poem to her students. Or, perhaps, it was a poem she had to memorize and recite when she was student. Maybe both.

On the first day of June in 1945—another cold and rainy day—Edna recalled the line. I imagine that she recited the words aloud before putting them down on page of her journal. She was longing for the the promise of all that days in June typically offer. Cold and rain, were not it.

WHAT IS SO RARE AS A DAY IN JUNE

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;

Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace;

The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,

We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;

We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,

For our couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,

And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,

Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,

'Tis for the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;

The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe

Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

--James Russell Lowell